Mrs. Jeffries Appeals the Verdict by Emily Brightwell (black authors fiction .TXT) 📗

upholstered chairs next

to the open window. Addison motioned toward the chairs in

an apparent invitation for the policemen to sit down. He

took the only other seat in the room—an overstuffed easy

chair next to the marble washbasin.

“We’re making some inquiries into the murder of Mrs.

Caroline Muran,” Witherspoon said as he took a seat. “And

we understand you were trying to buy her business.”

“I still am, Inspector,” Addison replied. “But that’s neither

here nor there. I thought Mrs. Muran’s killer was set to hang.”

“He is, but there are still some inquiries that need to be

made,” the inspector replied. “We understand that Mrs.

Muran refused to sell to you; is that correct?”

“I don’t know who told you that,” Addison replied, “but

your information is incorrect. She didn’t flat out refuse to

sell; she told me she’d think about it.”

“That’s not what we’ve been told, sir.” Barnes pulled his

notebook out of his coat pocket. “Her former factory manager claims she refused to even meet with you.”

“You mean the factory manager she sacked?” Addison

shrugged and smiled. He seemed to be enjoying himself.

“Why would you believe anything he says? The man is a

liar and probably a thief.”

“So you’re saying you did meet with her?” Barnes

pressed.

“I met her and her husband.” Addison stood up and

turned toward the mirror over the washbasin. He buttoned

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his collar. “It was a day or so after Sutter had been sacked.

I’d paid Sutter to arrange a meeting, but he’d not been able

to talk Mrs. Muran into seeing me, so I went along there

myself.” He turned and went to the open wardrobe, reached

inside, and pulled out a gray-striped waistcoat.

“If Sutter hadn’t been able to arrange an appointment,

why did you think Mrs. Muran would see you?” The inspector shivered slightly as a gust of wind blew in through the open window.

“She’s a lady.” Addison put on the waistcoat and turned

back to the mirror as he buttoned it up. “I was counting on

the fact that if I just presented myself at her office, she’d be

too polite to toss me out. I was right.” He grinned at his own

cleverness. “It was my lucky day, Inspector. Her husband

was there as well. When I walked in, she was polite, but I

could tell she was going to show me the door fairly quickly.

It was her husband that made her listen to my offer.”

“So you actually made her an offer?” Barnes looked up

from his notebook.

“A very good offer,” Addison replied. “And as I said,

she didn’t flat out reject it; she told me she’d think about it.”

“Our information was that she had no intention of selling under any circumstances,” Witherspoon said.

“As I said earlier, your information isn’t correct.” He

went to the wardrobe, pulled out his coat, and slipped it on.

“We’ve heard Mrs. Muran was more interested in protecting her workers than she was in worrying about profits,” Barnes commented.

Addison turned and stared at the constable. “She might

not have been interested in profits, but Mr. Muran certainly

was.”

“Mr. Muran didn’t own the factory,” Witherspoon said.

“He does now,” Addison replied.

“No he doesn’t,” Barnes said, then he caught himself

and clamped his mouth shut. Blast, maybe he ought to have

let the inspector tell Addison about Russell Merriman.

Mrs. Jeffries Appeals the Verdict

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Maybe Witherspoon didn’t want it spread about that Merriman was now the heir to Caroline Muran’s estate. He glanced at Witherspoon and was relieved to see his expression was quite calm.

Addison’s demeanor changed instantly. His smile disappeared, his eyes narrowed, and his expression hardened.

“What do you mean, he doesn’t own it? Of course he does.”

“Keith Muran doesn’t own anything,” Witherspoon said.

“The factory belongs to his brother-in-law, Russell Merriman.”

“That’s impossible.” Addison glared at them. “You

don’t know what you’re talking about. Someone’s having a

joke at your expense, Inspector. Merriman’s dead. He died

last year. His obituary was in all the papers.”

“No, that was a mistake.” Witherspoon thought this one

of the oddest interviews he’d ever had. “Mr. Merriman was

the victim of mistaken identity.”

“Mistaken identity?” Addison repeated. “That’s absurd.

That sounds like some silly nonsense from a bad West End

melodrama or one of those idiotic novels people waste

their time reading.”

“Nevertheless, it’s true,” Witherspoon replied. “The

American authorities incorrectly identified the victim of a

shooting as Russell Merriman.”

“Even Americans don’t make errors like that,” Addison

snapped.

“Mr. Merriman is alive and back in England,” Barnes

added. “He’s also the reason we’re here.”

Addison took a deep breath and got hold of his emotions. He ignored the constable’s comment. “So Merriman’s alive, eh. Then I’ll just deal with him instead of Muran. Matter of fact, Merriman’s not a businessman. I’m

sure he’ll be reasonable about selling the company.” He

pulled out his pocket watch and noted the time. “Is Mr.

Merriman staying at the Muran house?”

“No,” Witherspoon replied.

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“Then where is he staying?” Addison snapped. “Come

on, now, I’ve not time to waste larking about. Where is the

fellow?”

Witherspoon ignored Addison’s outburst. “We understand you were quite insistent about wanting to buy the business. Is that correct?”

“Ye gods, are you deaf?” Addison asked incredulously.

“Answer my question. Where is Merriman?”

“We’re not through asking our questions,” Barnes said

flatly. “I think you’ll find this will go much quicker if

you’ll continue cooperating.”

Addison sighed and folded his arms over his chest. “I

wouldn’t quite describe it that way. One can’t be insistent

when one is trying to buy something someone else has. But

I did want the business, I’ll admit that. Now look, I really

must get going. I’ve answered your questions, so I’d appreciate it if you’d tell me where Russell Merriman is staying.”

Witherspoon got to his feet. “I’m afraid I can’t help you,

sir. I’ve no idea where Mr. Merriman might be.”

C H A P T E R 9

Q

“Do you believe him, sir?” Barnes asked as they came out

of the hotel.

“I’m not sure,” the inspector admitted. “What do you

think?” It never hurt to obtain an additional opinion, especially from someone as astute as the constable.

Barnes thought for a moment. “He seemed to be cooperating, and he certainly answered our questions, but I’m not sure how much of it was genuine. I’ve got a feeling he

knew the case had been reopened and was expecting us.”

“I had the same feeling myself,” the inspector replied. He

glanced up the road and spotted